But some one already was sitting there. I could see her in the light from the room. A girl in a rose-colored dressing-gown with long braids down her back, sat there, looking up at the star-filled sky through the tree branches. I advanced and she made room for me at her side. I sat down, too stunned, too grief stricken for words. We sat there in silence. Presently her uneven breathing, her sobbing under-breaths, disturbed me.
“Please—please, Wanza—don’t,” I begged.
“I’ve been praying,” she stammered.
“That is well, dear girl.”
“Praying that Joey will live.”
“It seems a small thing for God to grant—in his omnipotence. It is everything in the world to me,” I murmured brokenly. “Why, girl, if my boy lives I shall be the happiest man on God’s footstool! I shall be immeasurably content. I shall ask nothing beside—nothing!”
She stirred. “Nothing, Mr. Dale—nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, Mr. Dale, you think so now—but you’ll be wanting her to come back—you can’t help wanting that!”
“I am very sure I shall never ask for that, Wanza. Joey brought me a letter. She is not coming back this year.”